


one of those nights

by SharkbaitHaHa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Cure for the Mark of Cain (Supernatural), M/M, Post-Season/Series 10 AU, Season/Series 11, bar-room conversations, pining?, slow burn?, western bars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27813643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharkbaitHaHa/pseuds/SharkbaitHaHa
Summary: An Angel and a Horseman of Death walk into a bar...A season 10 finale/early season 11 AU ficlet
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Kudos: 7





	one of those nights

When he pulls up at the bar, no, roadhouse, he frowns. It's one of those legitimate places, he can already tell. No tourists in mind here. No theme or advertising campaign. Just a faded out place for the faded out locals to come and get a drink at the end of a long workday. What was it that people did around here? As he drove into the area, he saw nothing but mountains and desert and dead plant life. Here and there, an endless line of fence.

Ranch country, then. That's all people did here. Rope and herd cattle all day, getting them ready to ship to Chicago or wherever to be turned into someone's Michelin Star steak dinner.

He stares at the half-lit neon sign,  _ -ad M-on B-r,  _ before sighing and turning off the ignition. Here goes nothing. 

He gets out of his car with weary resignation, much like a man who is walking to the death chamber. For all he knew, he was.

The wooden door creaks against him when he opens it, and he allows himself to be welcomed by the old Western bar. There are the stale scents of whiskey, beer, cigarettes, and dusty peanut shells. The crunch of those shells under boot soles, the soft scuff of a well worn wooden floor. There’s the smoky haze, everything lit under old neon lights advertising beer brands he wasn't even sure existed anymore. And there are muffled whispers of the drunk and lonely hidden behind the croon of a somehow still working jukebox. 

It is an old, familiar feeling, even though the environment is all new to him. Perhaps these locations are programmed into everyone's memories. Timeless places, contained in a universe of their own. Would five minutes pass by in the outside world while he is here? Or perhaps fifty years? He doesn’t know.

He sits down on a barstool, the cracked dried leather squeaking underneath his weight. Around him, the few patrons stare. They all know he is an outsider. Even if he dressed like them and looked like them he would've stood out. They were a tight-knit bunch, ranchers, and could spot an imposter within a heartbeat.

A barmaid comes by anyway, gives him a look when he just asks for water. Hesitantly, he changes his mind to a sour and cheap tasting beer. She only gets slightly more approving after that.

For a while, he sits there, listening to an old country song and staring at the beads of condensation that begin to form on the bottle. Then, eventually, he takes a drink from it. 

And continues to wait.

A lifetime? Two? Three? He lost track of time, the only thing that let him give any semblance of it was the change of songs in the background. The beer bottle in his hand is no emptier, or more full. Just is and is gradually growing more lukewarm. He resists the urge to remove his jacket.

Then it arrives. Before he even sees it he knows. He doesn't hear the door open, but he feels the atmosphere change, darken. A hush falls over the bar, even though no one stopped talking. Even the music seems muted, although no one had messed with the jukebox. 

Something inhuman entered the bar, and it sat itself down right next to the only other outcast and ordered a whiskey with a friendly wink.

The outcast shifts on his stool, the only sign of his discomfort. He doesn't say anything, because he doesn't know where to start. Instead, he waits for the  _ thing _ next to him to make its first move.

The thing drinks its whiskey first, orders another round, and when the barmaid turns away to go make it, it speaks. “Wonderin’ when someone would come lookin’.”

“You aren't easy to find,” the outcast replies evenly and refuses to look in the thing’s direction. 

“Yeah, well,” it shrugs, fiddled with his shot glass before downing it and ordering another. “I try.”

“Not recently.”

The thing stiffens, hands curled over the bar table, one halfway reached for the shot glass. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

“Untraceable for  _ months _ , and suddenly I have your exact location without even having to do a Google search,” the outcast continues. “You tell me, what do I not understand here?”

“Are you saying I want you here?”

The outcast shakes his head. “No. But you just did.”

The air around the thing darkens considerably, and it throws back its third shot with angry force. The outcast thinks he might be killed soon if he steps out of line again. He wonders if this thing would do it quickly and painlessly or not.

Probably or not.

“If I wanted you here, I would've called,” the thing said instead. It doesn't order another round, but it does order a beer. The outcast should've just handed over his. 

“What is this ‘Here’ anyway?” The outcast wonders, changing subjects. “I didn't realize that places like this were attractive to you.”

“It's quiet. I like the quiet. Less temptation.” It said it with conviction, but the outcast isn't sure who it was trying to reassure. Him? Or the thing itself? 

“Yes, I noticed you haven't been...off the bus?” He tests the idiom on his tongue, vaguely wondering if he used it right. He doesn’t think he did.

“I'm clean, yeah,” the thing replied. Its right arm shook and it gripped the beer bottle tighter to make the arm go still.

The outcast gestures at the tremor. “Barely.”

The thing clenches its jaw. “Don't talk about what you know nothing of, Cas. Don't talk about it at  _ all _ .”

“Isolation?” Castiel replied, and he finally takes a wanted drink from his now warm beer. “I know plenty on the topic of isolation. Much of it caused by  _ you _ , Dean.”

The thing flinches at the use of its name. “That's not me.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't realize you liked the title of Death more. Maybe if we talked more you could've told me in advance.”

Cas doesn't know where this courage came from. Probably from the Eagles song playing around them. 

The use of the title causes the room to still. It's a powerful thing, names, and the use of  _ that _ one, in particular, tended to plant seeds of terror in everyone within earshot.

Death looks around and sighs, drinks its beer. “Dean is fine, I guess.”

“Your brother asked me to ask how you were doing.” The statement is random, but Cas felt like he should say it now before he forgets. 

And that's when Cas knew there's a true problem, bigger than he previously imagined, because Dean said, “I have no brother.”

“Just like you have no one else,” Cas said this as a statement, not a question, and the hurt flashes in Dean’s eyes before disappearing behind jade glass. 

“Mama, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys,” it sings in a low voice instead, along with the song playing in the background. “Maybe it should be, ‘Mama, don't let your babies grow up to be demons’.”

“You're not a demon,” Cas reminds him gently.

“Nope,” Dean agrees. “I'm worse.”

“Sam and I think we found something,” Cas continues slowly. Now would be as good a time to announce why he is here as any, he supposes. “A cure.”

Dean snorts. “How many times have I heard that phrase used towards me?”

“I mean it this time, Dean. This answer... is legitimate. No spell work here. No bargain.”

“Now you're talkin’ too good to be true.”

“Of course I am. I'm talking about giving you my Grace.”

Dean about chokes on its drink. Of course, being Death, it wouldn't be able to even if it tried. “Don't talk stupid, Cas. It doesn't suit you.”

“Grace has many miracle properties. Everything from rebuilding souls to transforming them from one state to another. I can make you something better than Death. I can remove your Mark. I can make you Cured,” Cas explains quickly, hoping Dean would just  _ listen  _ for once.

It seems he is. “And what happens to me?”

“You'll be something between Human and Angel,” Cas answers reluctantly. “Something pure, no longer taintable. But mortal.”

“And what happens to you?”

Cas doesn't answer, just stares off at the bar.

“ _ Castiel look at me.” _

Even Angels must obey an order from Death, and he finds himself forced to look him in the eye for the first time in months. He's horrified at the Deadness he sees there, despite the fact he shouldn't have expected anything else.

“What happens to you if you give me your Grace?”

Cas cannot turn away, no matter how hard he tries, and he tries hard. “I don't know. Depends on how much Grace it takes to heal you. If I use all of it, I'll probably weaken and die. If I don't use it all, I'll be the same as you, more than Human but less than Angel.”

“Why would you do that for me?”

The question sounded so innocent it makes him laugh. “Because I can't let this be you.”

“Why not?  _ Someone _ must be Death, and since I killed him…”

“Because there are plenty of Reapers that can take over the role just fine, and because I pulled you from Hell. I'm not going to allow you to fall further than that  _ again _ .” He wishes Dean heard what he was saying. Wishes he  _ really  _ heard.

“What did Sam say about your idea?”

“He just wants you home.”

“So he doesn't care much about your wellbeing, huh?” Dean comments. He rolls his dead eyes.

“If the roles were reversed, you would do the same.”

“No, I wouldn't. I wouldn't sacrifice you or your Grace. Not even for him.”

Cas shoots him a surprised look. “And why not?”

Dean turned away. “Because I'd rather have him cursed and you with me than him fine and you not there at all.”

“Is this your way of saying you won't do this?” Cas asks quietly.

“This is my way of saying I can't bear to reap the only person I still feel for,” Dean replies even quieter. “Find your Grace and use it for you. I beg you not to use it on me.”

“Then we’ll keep looking.”

“We will.”

“Together?” Cas sends him a questioning look.

Dean is silent for a long moment. Then he said, “I am tired. I want to go home. I want to sleep. I want to do this together.”

Cas puts his hand on the back of Dean’s neck, flinches at how cold the flesh is but squeezes it reassuringly anyway. “Then we'll keep working on this  _ together.” _

They leave the bar, a tired fallen Angel and a tired Horseman of Death. They leave together.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> In case you didn't figure it out, the AU is if Dean had been forced to take on the role of Death after killing them in the season 10 finale. The Darkness is not released. Might write more on the topic if there's interest.
> 
> Title is stolen from the song of the same name by the Eagles. Not a bad song, if I say so myself. Eagles were definitely underused in the show's run...


End file.
